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About Berlin

So picture this—some chick, or dude, whatever, out there hustlin. Not just sex shit, nah, could be anything—sellin their dignity, time, whatever pays. Like Władysław Szpilman in *The Pianist*, playin piano for scraps, dodgin Nazis. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, hidin in ruins. Whore’s like that—dodgin life’s bullshit, playin the game. I respect the grind, fam, but it pisses me off too. Why they gotta? Society’s fucked, pushin folks to that edge.

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Now, as a family psychologist, I’ve got this weird knack for noticing the subtle vibes here. You stroll past Rathausplatz, the old town hall square, and you feel it—history, serenity, and an undercurrent of mystery, maybe even secrets whispered by the wind. I remember once, while walking near Lindenweg—yep, that quiet little street off the beaten path—I had this heart-to-heart with a complete stranger on a park bench at Park der Eichen. I swear, we connected in about a minute, like our souls were pinned together. Truly, "tempus fugit", eh?

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